


Win Small, Lose Big

by ByeByeHoverfly



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: -Ish, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Flirting, Bets & Wagers, First Meetings, M/M, Misunderstandings, kinda? they're students, probably just one big trope ngl, …i think is the tag for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByeByeHoverfly/pseuds/ByeByeHoverfly
Summary: "C'mon, we won't even make you sleep with him! Just chat him up a bit, take him on a date, is all."______John knew better than to take bets from Pete Shotton, he really did. So he could hardly complain when his piece of shit friends managed to both find him and lose him his soulmate within the span of three weeks.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	1. John is an Idiot, But it's Only the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure what this is (besides a huge cliché that's been sitting in a folder on my desktop for ages). But, I need motivation to do things and posting stuff helps keep me accountable, so here we are!
> 
> Also: characterization of John's friends is far from accurate, mostly for story purposes. (Sorry Pete x)

"Christ, Rod!"

"Y'alright there, Davis?"

"The actual hell are you on, mate?"

John Lennon and his band of young Liverpudlians had turned to gawp at their friend, who—if the resounding crash through the living room was indication—had made yet another ill-fated attempt at leaping over the last five steps.

One boy went to help their fallen comrade from his sprawl at the bottom of the stairs, whilst another groused about damage to his mother's hardwood.

"We're cutting you off."

"C'mon, Colin, let 'im live—this party could use the fuckin' entertainment."

"It's not _that_ bad," Colin insisted, crossing his arms.

"It's that bad, mate. Are there even any girls here?"

"None who don't dress like my granddad, anyway," one boy snickered, tossing his head towards what looked to John in the dim lighting like some greyish, vaguely human-shaped blurry spot. The rest of the group turned to look and broke into obnoxious guffaws.

"Eric, you tit! That's a bloke!"

"What? No—what sort of bloke wears that much mascara?"

"Don't reckon he's got any on, mate. Think he's got pretty eyelashes, though, do ye?"

"Oh, piss off," Eric grumbled. "Looks like a damn bird."

"Prob'ly 'cos he's practically a kid, by the look of him. Wonder if he's been let near the booze."

"Where d'ye even find your mates, Col'?"

"'Round the retirement kindergartens for underaged pensioners," John chimed in. He could barely see the kid, himself—much less have an opinion on how he looked or what he was wearing—but he was hardly going to pass up an opportunity to take the piss out of Colin Hanton.

(John didn't have a personal problem with the guy so much as he was unimpressed with Colin's abilities as a member of his band, and may have harboured hope that the lad would one day get fed up and quit on his own. But John's antagonism had never quite crossed the line from "passive aggressive" to purely "aggressive," as the Quarrymen would then be out a drummer, _again_ , and even if John wanted Colin out he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with the reality of it.)

"He's—" Colin shot a look across the room, inspecting the kid. "He's a mate of Ivan's, I think? Dunno really. He brought beer, though."

That pretty much ended the conversation, as various members of the group suddenly decided they were nowhere near drunk enough for a Friday night and went in search of more alcohol.

John fancied the idea of getting bladdered, but was finding it difficult to work up the (albeit minimal) effort to do so. It was shaping up to be one of those nights: John had found himself a comfy notch on Colin's sofa and had no plans to leave it, only half-listening to the conversation around him. Although he did keep one eye open in a perpetual squint towards his circle of mates, offering a sneer or smirk when appropriate. Needed to keep up appearances, after all. He even joined in a perfunctory scoping-out of an arriving group of girls, going through all the usual motions. _Have a look at her friend, she's dead fit—I'm more into blondes, me—fuckin' hell, what a pair on her_.

But John's heart wasn't really in it. Hardly ever was, these days, if he was honest with himself; most things he did, were done because he hardly had the motivation to try anything else.

Even art school—which he'd once seen as an opportunity to placate his sensible Aunt Mimi whilst retaining his freedom from desk jobs—was losing its lustre; John had been massively disappointed to discover that a _school of art and design_ was still very much a _school_ , and that in his experience, lecturers were to teachers as the Catholic Church was to the C of E. (In that they had different, fancier words and a more convoluted hierarchy than what he'd had growing up, but set him on an uncomfortable bench and make him listen to either of them talk for an hour and John would be hard pressed to tell you any real difference. And anyway: neither lecturer nor instructor, pastor nor priest had ever seemed too fond of John Winston Lennon.)

And not that John would admit it, but he feared he'd wandered out of his depth in studying art for a profession. He enjoyed doodling, sketching, but he didn't think he had a real _gift_ for it, not like some students. People like his mate Stuart, who'd had his pieces shown in proper exhibitions and regularly made upwards of £100 on his paintings—a veritable fortune next to the pocket money John earned off online commissions. His own customers were less interested in his artistic inspirations or take on contemporary culture, and mostly concerned with whether he was willing to draw high-def cartoon genitalia on the cheap (he was).

The only thing that reliably pierced John's bubble of apathy nowadays was music. Discovering it, listening to it—but especially making it. If anybody should understand that, it'd be his bandmates. But those lads had been sat round him all night, and it did nothing to pull John outside of himself. Because the others looked content enough with the booze and the birds; none seemed to itch like John did from not having played a gig in weeks.

As time went on, John had been disappointed to realise just how little of his investment in the Quarrymen's future was shared by his bandmates. It wasn't a sustainable situation, not if John was ever going to get anywhere with his music—not that he really had a clear idea of what "getting there" would look like. It was all a murky greyness, his future. But music, if he could continue with it, was one bright spot he wasn't quite ready to let go of yet. No matter how improbable it was starting to seem.

When he heard a voice repeating his name, muffled as though he'd water deep in his ears, John realised he must've sunk a bit too far into his head. Casual disinterest could be played off as cool—genuine depression, less so.

"Whassat?" John scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

"I said, that tall bird by the plant has been eyein' you for like fifteen minutes," Pete said, glancing at John's slumped position amongst the cushions. "Not that ye look in any shape for it, ye sorry sod."

"Not so drunk that I couldn't bed anyone at _this_ shit party," he muttered.

There was a pause. Then: "Ye wanna bet, Lennon?"

John wished his vision were good enough—or his mind sober enough—to really see Pete's face in that moment. He wanted to know whether the mischief in his mate's eyes had taken on a crueler glint, as was seeming to happen more and more often, lately. Only being able to make out a vague smirk, though, and not sensing danger on the horizon, John decided it wouldn't do to lose face.

"Depends, Shotton—how much are ye good for?"

Pete pondered it a moment. "What say…fifteen quid?"

John considered. It wasn't a huge sum, painless enough to pay up if he lost—and if he won, it's not like he'd ever needed much money as motivation for a shag. Granted, he usually wasn't paid anything. (Come to think of it: would this make him a prostitute? It didn't count if the client wasn't the one paying, right?)

"Alright, then," John said. "Ye got a lass in mind?"

"More or less." Pete's smirk grew.

 _Ah_ , John thought grimly, _there's the rub_. Could hardly turn back now, though.

Pete angled his head to nod towards the far corner of the room. "How 'bout Shitty McCardigan, over there?"

"Huh?" John squinted his eyes against the dim lighting.

"Y'know, Ivan's little mate. The one with the eyelashes." Pete was openly grinning now.

"What?" John snorted, the conversation about Greyish Blur coming back to him. "Just 'cos 'e looks like a bird, doesn't mean I'll fuck him like one! Doesn't count."

"You didn't say it had to be a girl, John," Pete retorted, "Said ye could bed anyone here. He's here, inne?"

John raised a slightly drowsy but still distinctly unimpressed eyebrow. "Ye're taking the piss."

"Fifteen pounds it is then," Pete said, drawing himself up and extending a hand for the money.

"Fuck off," John barked back, swatting away his arm. "Cheat."

"Nah, mate. That was our deal."

John was about to have it out with Pete—would probably already be grabbing him by the collar if he'd had just a bit more drink in him—until it crossed his mind how little interest he had in scrapping with his best mate tonight. What would be the point? It was so easy to set the lad off when he got like this; and John, by now just another lump on the Hantons' lumpy sofa, was for once in no mood to expend energy on a real dust up.

"Whatever, man," John relented, affecting indifference as he dug in his pockets for his billfold and pulled out a couple of notes.

But this time it was Pete who, after pausing for a moment and getting an odd look on his face, rejected the outstretched hand. John stared at him in confusion.

"Well? What's your problem now?" he demanded.

Pete just smirked again. And, yep—John could now see it was not the good kind of smile.

Before John could curse himself for even half the bad decisions he'd made that night (he'd gotten clear through _nicking a bottle of Aunt Mimi's fancy scotch_ but not yet reached _letting Rod near said fancy scotch_ ) Pete was turning to the larger group and calling loudly for their attention.

"Hey, lads, what say we all chip in a bit to the betting pool?"

"What're you on about?" John saw Colin's head appear suddenly from behind an ottoman, rising up from nowhere land to lift himself onto his elbows and blink dumbly at Pete.

"I'm saying, we all give John fifteen quid if he manages to seduce Ivy's little friend over there."

"Why the hell would we do that?" Stu raised an eyebrow.

"Gotta say I'm with Stu, here," John interjected. "Why the hell would I agree to that?"

"C'mon, we won't even make you sleep with him! Just chat him up a bit, take him on a date, is all." Pete seemed to be enjoying himself now. John should have seen this coming.

"I ain't going bent for a bit of cash, Shotton."

"Nobody said anything about 'going bent,' Lennon," Pete countered. "Ye just have to get the lad out for one night, and y'get–" Pete cut himself of and turned to the group. "Hey, how many of you lot are in?"

Len, Eric and Nigel raised their hands. Stuart and Rod abstained — Stuart probably because Pete didn't intimidate him like he did the others, and Rod because he was rather less than conscious by that point. Colin just avoided Pete's eyes.

"Hanton! C'mon, lad!" Pete urged.

Colin snorted, but after a moment's staring match mumbled a _whatever_ and nodded his reluctant assent.

"That's four, times fifteen…sixty quid right there!" Pete cried. "Maybe that'll even get ye rid of yer ancient guitar, eh John?"

John paused for a moment to consider that. His guitar _had_ been sounding particularly monstrous, lately, buzzing like a swarm of pissed off hornets no matter how he'd tried to restring it. And sixty pounds would certainly get him that much closer to that electric he'd been eyeing—a glossy, well-weighted instrument that had been taunting him and his basswood wasps' nest every time he went down the music shop. It was a generous amount, really. And just for hanging about for a few hours with some twerp, hideous though his sweater (allegedly) was.

 _Not just "hanging," Lennon, you'll be taking him on a_ date. Christ, was John really considering going out with this guy just to make a few quick quid? Maybe he _was_ a proper prostitute. (Or was escort the better word, since he wasn't sleeping with him? Maybe he was supposed to say sex worker? He'd have to look up the terminology later.

…Or not, because it was just for a shitbrained bet after all. _Focus, man._ )

But then, it was only a few hours at most. And besides, what were the odds the kid would actually agree to go out with him? There was a not-insignificant chance this whole thing would be over as soon as John walked over there and opened his mouth, no need to worry about the date itself. And, again, if not, he got eighty pounds out of it. Either way, he'd saved himself the embarrassment of Shotton calling his bluff.

The decision made, John sighed. "Alright, Pete. Ye've got a deal."


	2. An Awkward Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul reluctantly attends a party and has a (maybe, not really) chance meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm later than expected, had to make major changes before this thing got even halfway decent. Next update should come shorter but sooner—it was originally another part of this chapter (before I chopped it in two just now), so it's mostly done!

Paul bit his lip, triple checking the house number while George searched for a place to chain his bike. The house itself was a nicely-kept semi-detached; the outdoors needed tending, though. Paul’s heart went out to their hydrangea, a sad little thing pruned back haphazardly and given no mulch cover from the frost. His gardening instinct—inherited from his father—felt a twinge at the butchered stalks twitching in a gust of wind.

Paul raised a hand to the doorknob—hesitated, and dropped it. He wasn't exactly looking forward to tonight, or to the "plenty of liquor, and probably some other stuff floating round" that Ivan had promised.

Paul wasn't a lightweight, but he'd always been more of a _good drink with good friends_ kind of guy; he couldn't imagine getting to any level of inhibition here, thrown in amongst what he expected to be a crowd of mostly older art students whose parents had mortgages. Maybe that was another habit instilled by old Jim McCartney— _keep yer chin up and nose clean_ , and all. _Don’t give anybody reason to look down on you_.

It could also have had something to do with the fact that, while Paul could trust George to try and get him home, the lad was _dead_ skinny, and it was doubtful if they’d make it as far as five steps towards the bus stop on Kings Drive with George supporting much of their combined weight. And Paul really didn’t fancy crashing on a stranger’s floor.

But he hadn’t had it in him to refuse the invitation, not when Ivan had seemed so excited about it—especially since he saw his old schoolmate a lot less often than he felt he ought to since entering uni. So Paul had cleared his schedule, recruited George Harrison for moral support, and ventured out to the house party of one Colin Hanton.

Paul’s meandering thoughts were interrupted by a nearby drone of a voice: "I hope ye didn't drag us out into the actual Baltics just to stand about in somebody’s garden." Chattering teeth were audible and Paul felt a bit guilty—after all, George was wearing only a tatty flannel over his t-shirt.

(He couldn’t have been nearly as cosy as Paul in his ugly, but wonderfully–thick cardigan knit by his own Auntie Jin. Then again: it wasn’t like Paul, in league with Louise Harrison, hadn’t given George plenty of grief about that clothing decision before they’d left his house. _Better the ‘mum friend’ than the ‘dead-from-exposure friend’_ , Paul always said.)

"Do we…ring the doorbell, then?" Paul wondered aloud.

"Reckon not." George shrugged. He leant his bike next to Paul's behind the bins—entrusting it to the darkness of the night and to Woolton’s Neighbourhood Watch—and marched straight through the door.

 _Guess we're going inside, then_.

Paul stepped in behind his younger mate, eyes immediately sweeping the house for the one other face he could be sure to recognise. Thankfully, Ivan Vaughan was tall—Paul spotted him quickly, even in the swarm of people near the fridge.

Passing the living room on his way to the kitchen, Paul noted that most partygoers already seemed knee-deep in their bottles—or plastic cups, in most cases. He caught George glance longingly towards the sofas, where a circle of happy-looking people sat beneath a fragrant, hovering cloud. But his friend remained faithfully by his side, at least for the moment; Paul made a grateful silent promise to find his mate some warmer garment for the way home.

"Hiya, Ivy," Paul said as soon as he’d got close enough to be heard over the general clamour. Ivan's face lit up instantly in recognition.

"Heya, Macca! Glad you could make it!” He greeted Paul with a slap on the back and a cold beer, which he’d apparently conjured from thin air like some sort of hospitality fairy—which was not too far off the mark, Paul imagined. Ivan then turned to give George the same treatment. “And Hazza, man, how’ve you been?”

“Eh. Same old, y’know—still in school. Surviving sixth form.”

“Still knocking around with this nobhead?” Ivan jostled Paul with a shoulder.

“He hasn’t got the money to divorce me yet,” Paul explained, just as George murmured something about _divorce papers still being processed_.

Ivan snorted. “Well, good to know that creepy twin shite hasn’t changed.” He raised his own bottle to his mouth, interrupting himself mid-drink with a hum of realisation. “Hey, have you lads met Colin, yet? Lemme introduce you— _Oi! Colin!_ " Ivan hollered across the hall. A mousy-haired boy, crouched over a bucket on the living room floor, paused in wringing out a rag to look up at Ivan. "These are my mates from school, Paul and George!"

Colin raised his rag in a wave to the pair—who returned the gesture—before resuming his sopping-up of what Paul hoped was spilled beer from the rug.

“How do you know each other?” Paul inquired politely, whilst George swirled beer around the neck of his bottle.

“Oh, well—you know John, yeah? John Lennon, lives behind me? Anyway, met through him—Colin’s in his band.” Ivan paused, a thoughtful look passing over his face. "Actually, a lot of the blokes here are—or have been, anyway. Runs through band members like water, does our John."

"I fuckin' wonder why," piped a voice behind them. Paul turned to see thick-rimmed glasses and a wry expression.

"Oh yeah, Ken, didn't you play guitar with him for a bit?" Ivan asked the guy. (Ken, apparently.)

"'For a bit,' yeah. Was five months—but you wouldn't know it the way he tossed me out the first time I missed a gig. Had the friggin’ flu."

"Oh, was that you? Then who was the one to get a brick through his window?"

Ivan and Ken seemed to have endless, increasingly ridiculous stories to tell about unfortunate ex-band members—" _Think that was Tom…or was he the one who got the drum broken over his head?…_ ". Though, Paul couldn't say he was necessarily surprised by what he heard; not now that he knew Ivan's John was John _Lennon_.

Of course Paul had seen the Lennon kid around. After all, it would have been hard for a chubby young preteen not to notice the group of older boys who followed him, 'oink'ing, as he left school. Or for a 14-year-old to forget the day he sat next to a sweet old lady on the bus, only to have a crumpled page from a porno mag thrown into his lap. (Paul hadn’t been able to see a nipple for weeks without reexperiencing that mortification.) But for whatever reason, Paul had never expected to really _interact_ with him—not reciprocally, anyway. John Lennon was just a fixture of the city. Some morning commutes are made under deluges of cold rain; some nights you’re lulled to sleep by the sounds of scrambler bikes; sometimes John Lennon will knock into you on the street, squashing the bread you meant to take home from the grocery. And call you "bread bastard" if you complain. That's just life.

Apparently, Paul wasn't alone in this feeling. Lucky for Lennon that amongst the many strong emotions he had been known to inspire, was a seemingly infinite capacity for toleration—no matter how many examples of the lad’s problematic tendencies they were presented with, a lot of people just seemed to accept him as an inevitability. Paul soon learned that John and his coterie were here with them at Colin's party, and as far as he could tell, there were no hard feelings in the air; had John been anybody else with the same history, he would have been long since run out into the street. Paul wondered what it was about Lennon—what people saw in him that made them so willing to overlook _considerable_ faults.

Before long, they were joined in conversation by another one of Ken's mates, and from there it didn't take much prompting for talk to turn to football. Paul used the excuse of being the odd Everton fan out to get himself booed (amicably, he hoped) from the circle. His first thought afterwards was of finding George—who Paul had seen slip away sometime after that first fateful mention of Carragher, but before he himself had made an escape—and he ended up wandering into a corner of the living room, where beverage containers, mostly liquor, were strewn across what looked like Mr. or Mrs. Hanton's work desk.

“Hey, there.”

Paul’s head shot up and he crossed looks with a smiling young woman, standing on the opposite side of the desk. “Hi…” He glanced at the collection of bottles. “Would you be the barkeep, then?”

Her smile split into a tongue-between-teeth laugh. “Nah. Well, I’d sort of commandeered the drinks table cos my friends wanted manhattans. Don’t know much about it, really, but…” She cast a look around the crowd of young people at varying low levels of coherence.

“It’s not like anybody in here’s gonna notice,” Paul finished for her.

“Exactly.”

“Do we have vermouth, then?”

“No—I used Ribena, and they weren’t in any state to tell the difference.” Paul gave a full-bodied chuckle, and the girl’s smirk slowly turned flirtatious—she rested her chin in her hand cheekily. “Know your cocktails, do you?”

Paul responded in kind, leaning in with his palms on the desk. “Hardly. But my cousin’s got a pub down in Reading, I work there sometimes in the summers.” He scanned the table’s contents. “I think we could make cosmos, without the lime bit.”

“I’ll leave that to you, then.” She handed him a third-full bottle of vodka. “My name’s Celia, by the way.”

“Paul. ‘S a pleasure.”

And he found that it really was. Paul was more used to hook-ups with members of his own gender, these days, ever since starting at university—which, though it hadn’t yet allowed him to move out of his dad’s house, had at least given him access to the privacy of _other_ people’s student housing. He still flirted with girls and had dates here and there, but no proper girlfriend; not since the first, when he was sixteen and finally shed his clinging baby fat.

He took a quick liking to Celia, though. Celia who had a ready smile and pretty dark hair, and was happy to talk about her film classes instead of footy.

“Here y’are—discount cosmopolitan.” He handed a cup of the red mixture to Celia and bit down on his urge to make the obvious pun; bad dad jokes were one of the few faults in Paul’s easy charm, and one that he found himself having to keep in check.

(Cosmo _paul_ itan.)

“Thanks, Paul.” Celia smiled at him, her eyes inviting—that is, until they caught on something past Paul shoulder and widened in badly-suppressed shock.

“I’m gonna, erm, take this over to Amy,” she stammered, backing away while still trying to smile politely at Paul. “My friend, er…she’s a proper picky drinker, like…”

Paul watched Celia’s fleeing back in confusion, not sure whether to follow or to feel offended at being manipulated for free cocktails (without tip, to boot).

But then he spun round, only to see John Lennon, of all people, standing unnecessarily close. The lad was staring back over Paul’s shoulder with a perplexing snarl on his face that somehow looked both venomous and vaguely disinterested. No wonder the lass wanted to get away; Paul had a mind to join her.

"Alright, la'." Lennon said after a stalemate.

All at once, Paul came to the curious realisation that for however many times he'd seen the boy’s face—even heard him holler his lungs out, usually in a variety of daft imitations—he didn’t recall ever having heard his normal voice at a normal volume. It was higher-pitched than he'd expected, and more nasal. But not necessarily unpleasant. ( _Not at all unpleasant_ , according to the sudden frantic noises in Paul’s brain that he pointedly ignored.)

Paul cleared his throat. "A’right." Lennon made no move to leave. “Er…were ye needing something, mate?”

“Yeah, actually.” He went to take a swig from his cup, which Paul guessed was empty, because John quickly lowered it and looked inside with an annoyed twist to his lips. “I seem to have lost me number. Can I borrow yours?"

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

"That…um. What?” Paul replied coherently.

Lennon shrugged, unbothered, and went to pour something from a brown bottle into his cup. "Worth a shot, eh?"

 _A shot at what, exactly?_ In any case, Paul wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved; he'd been hearing periodic loud crashes from the vicinity of John’s crowd earlier, and had noticed one of the guys who hung round them walking about with a limp.

John turned back towards Paul, apparently satisfied with whatever frothing concoction he’d mixed, and was visibly surprised to see him still standing there. Paul thought John would move to duck out, but the older student only ended up shifting awkwardly in place. So Paul figured that he himself would be the one to leave—but the way John’s eyes rested on him made his feet feel stuck fast to the floor. (Granted, they may have also been somewhat _literally_ stuck to the floor, since guests had clearly not been mindful about sloshing liquids while topping off their drinks.)

“I’m Paul. McCartney, that is.” Paul finally said, mostly to break their weighty silence. (It had always been a somewhat problematic quality of his, that his manners extended even to people who had none themselves.)

“I’m John.” Lennon nodded stiffly as if to confirm this pronouncement—whether to himself or to Paul, Paul wasn’t sure. "So then…how do you know our lovely host?"

Paul was pleasantly surprised by this pleasantly normal question. "Don't, really," he replied. Then, hearing how terse this sounded, he hurried to add: "Met him through Ivan—Ivy’s an old mate from secondary."

John drew himself up to full height; brows curved as his spine went ramrod straight. " _Ah_ —so we’ve more than one Blue Coat alumnus among us tonight.” He’d adopted a Southern accent that made even greater use of his large Roman nose.

“Oh, aye.” Paul kept his own voice serene, while leaning hard the opposite way—directly into his scouse. “But wha’ j’ expect, then, la’—y’ invite one, y’ invite the lorra us. ‘S the Arld Blue loyalty, like.”

He blinked innocently up at John, who dropped his nose-in-the air act to chuckle. A cool gaze swept over Paul. "God, what Mimi would make o' you.”

Paul had no clue what to make of _that_. "Um. Mimi?"

"Me aunt." John waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Paul’s eyes caught, lingered, on the bend of his wrist—surprisingly delicate. He had to force his mind to process John’s words.

"Arnt Mimi? And ye call me posh?"

Paul had had the vague idea that John was middle class (though probably not proud of the fact, if his played-up rough accent was any indication). But was sure he'd never met anyone who would hand-to-God talk about having an _Aren’t Mimi_.

John just shrugged. "Wasn't me who named her, was it?"

"Oh, ‘course not. Your baby'd be called…Shantelle, or summat."

John let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. "What?"

"Scratch that— _Siobhan_."

"How d'ye figure?" John's narrow eyes were glimmering in the dim lights.

Paul widened his own eyes, a silent _isn't that obvious?_ "Well, the Irish temper."

"…Coming from a bloke called _McCartney_."

Paul was mildly astonished John had remembered his family name, but kept the surprise off his face. "A bloke called McCartney who's never thrown a rock through his bandmate's window, ye mean."

That hit seemed to land—at least going by the slight widening to John’s eyes. Paul felt pride at having got to those narrow brown things, distractingly intense as they were. John leaned back against the table, heaving a resigned sigh.

"So, I see my reputation precedes me,” he drawled. “You should know, then, that Tommy'd failed to turn up for a _contractually-mandated_ engagement." John paused to bite casually at his thumbnail. "Also, Nigel's a frickin' dipshit and handed me a brick when I'd said we were using gravel."

That explanation begged several questions. What sort of ‘engagement’ leads to harassing your mate in his home, for one? Also—how does one fail to notice when he's holding a brick and not a bunch of little rocks? Paul just latched onto the simplest: "Who's Nigel?"

"A mate,” John shrugged. "Used to play in me band."

 _That_ sounded familiar to Paul, at least. "So…not unlike most lads in Merseyside between 18 and 25, then."

John’s scruffy eyebrows lept a quarter inch. "Them army recruiters could learn a few things from me."

Paul’s thin arches rose right back. "Not when it comes to retention rates, apparently."

That seemed to startle John into a laugh. “Quick, are we?” He smirked. “Maybe too quick—haven’t noticed a bird hanging round, anyways.” He leaned in close to Paul with a teasingly cocked eyebrow—close enough that Paul felt he could get drunk off the smell of warm, beery breath. Or at least, that’s how Paul himself would explain his sudden light-headedness if anyone were to ask.

“Ah, yeah, and I wonder who’s fault that was.”

“Maybe I wanted you to meself,” John crooned, face still inches from Paul's.

(And Paul—Paul _knew_ Lennon was fucking with him. He understood that. So the sudden stirring in his gut, and the awkward heaviness of his tongue in his mouth, and the and the flush blooming behind his cheeks meant _nothing_ , nothing at all, because he _knew_ Lennon was _fucking with him_.)

(Christ.)

“Wanted the booze to yourself, maybe,” Paul said, distantly proud of the minimal strain in his voice.

“Well, that too.”

John stepped back and took a drink from his cup as if to emphasise the point. Paul looked around at the liquor on the table, subtly catching his breath.

“I can’t imagine Colin’s parents will be as enthusiastic about it.” Paul had noticed some expensive-looking bottles laying round that he doubted were fruits of a student’s wallet.

John snorted. “Oh, believe me, he’s aware of that. Been a one man maid service all night—saw him running round sneaking coasters under bottles, earlier. Pretty sure the stress has already shaken some screws loose.”

Paul gave a sympathetic whistle. “Don’t think coasters are gonna make a dent in it, mate.” At least not in the lingering weed smell, or the shoe-shaped craters that had somehow made their way into the living room drywall. “Why’re we doing this in his parents’ house, anyway?”

“They’re away for the weekend, or something? Not really sure, but somebody decided we should have a get-together. Pete, probably.”

“A ‘get-together’?” Paul gazed warily upon the sea of young adults. Not an intimate gathering—by any definition.

“Well…” John's voice was weary, but still held notes of persistent humour, almost like he was telling an inside joke.

Paul felt a warm, unfamiliar heaviness welling up inside his ribs. A sense of camaraderie between two people who would rather be somewhere else, he assumed—and went to meet John's eyes, wanting to take advantage of this new good will between them.

But the second golden-brown met his own hazel, Paul was stopped short.

It was like all the world—all Paul's attention, at least—had shrunk down and settled into the curve of John's subtle smirk. That little evidence of their mutual understanding. Even the constant white noise of Paul's thoughts just…disappeared.

It was a completely novel feeling, and Paul almost wished he would allow himself to enjoy it.

Instead, unnerved, Paul let his eyes leave John's and flit about the room. In doing so they made contact with George ( _George!_ ), who nodded towards John with a question on his furrowed brow.

Paul just shrugged. _Your guess is as good as mine, mate_ —and he could see George laugh, which put a smile on his own face.

Paul heard a scoff by his right ear—nearer than he'd remembered John standing. He turned back to the older boy, whose forehead now held curious wrinkles of its own.

"What're ye smilin' at?"

"Huh? Oh, it's just George," Paul said, waving a casual hand in his younger friend's general direction.

John didn't seem to like this answer; he turned to look where Paul had gestured, and his eyes—already in a perpetual squint—seemed to Paul to narrow further.

"Who's George then? Is he about to come bash me face in for moving in on his fella?"

 _'Moving in on'_? Paul felt his voice stick in his throat, which was suddenly too dry despite the coke he'd been faithfully sipping. What was Lennon playing at, anyway? Messing with the girly-looking kid by flirting, implying he was queer, was one thing—but if that was Lennon's game, he was _really_ committing. Rather too much, in Paul's opinion.

By now lost in his thoughts, Paul floated slowly back to reality only to see the scowl deepening on John's face. He hurried to cut in: "That's not likely, seeing as we're not here together—or, we are, but just as mates, like. And, well…even if we _were_ together like that, I doubt he'd lay a hand on ye." It was more likely to be a headbutt, but Paul didn't qualify the statement, as such. Instead, he pinned John with a skeptical look and tacked on: "Not unless provoked, anyway."

"Something about _that_ feels pointed," John said, brow smoothed. (He'd seemed to settle after Paul's explanation.)

"Eh,” Paul shrugged, "not really. I'm actually feeling rather _dull_ , just now."

Paul could feel the joke fall with a flat _thud_ in his stomach. He didn't have it in himself to care, much.

But to his surprise, John crowed suddenly and loudly with laughter. When he spoke next it was in a goofy, brassy Transatlantic accent—something straight from 1940's Hollywood—with a cheesy wink to boot: "If that's the case, then, _dullface_ , what say we make things more interesting?"

Paul groaned, but more out of reluctant amusement than anything. He wouldn’t have guessed Lennon would have a thing for terrible one-liners, and the boy’s goofy enthusiasm was almost _endearing_ , if Paul could admit as much to himself.

"That must be the worst line I've ever heard," Paul complained.

"What, after your _pencil_ joke?" John balked. "I think your standards want adjusting, mate; d'ye need to hear some more?"

"God, no." Paul felt his lips, of their own volition, finally stretch into a grin.

Something dropped in John’s face in that moment. Literally dropped—his jaw went the subtlest bit slacker; his shoulders slouched just enough that Paul noticed having to angle his head down to meet his eyes. He might have written this off as tiredness, or just another odd Lennon mannerism, if it hadn’t been for the subtly pained look that passed through John’s eyes.

Thankfully, Paul had only a few moments of internal panic before John seemed to shake himself, and his eyes came back into focus before he turned them towards his feet. Then he cleared his throat.

"Let me take you out."

_…huh?_

"A little disappointing, that one," Paul remarked after a moment. Figuring John was using their mock flirting to gloss over… _whatever_ had just happened, Paul had decided to let him hide behind the joke.

But John didn't look up—just shook his head slowly at the floor.

"Fresh out of lines, unfortunately." With a languid roll of his shoulders and upwards tilt of his chin, John slipped quietly back into the arrogant posture that had crumbled moments ago. "Just…go out with me."

Paul was still unsure where the boundaries of this joke lay. Which he might have been able to handle, if he weren't so sure that beyond those borders lay certain humiliation and social death. And land mines, probably.

The safest route, Paul decided, was hedging his bets. "That's a little forward, y'know, given we just met. Ye could—ye could ask a lad for his number."

John mouth opened briefly, lazily, before a spark came into his eyes and it snapped closed with some indignant realisation. He started in again: "I did ask for your number! It was like, the first thing I said!"

Out of all the things Paul could have expected out of John Lennon tonight, he couldn't say he'd expected _whining_. Disturbingly, he didn’t find himself as put off by it as he felt he ought to be. "Well, forgive me if I doubted your intentions then, Lennon," Paul teased, offering what he hoped was a relaxed smile.

Though Paul meant to reassure, that seemed to unsettle John all over again.

“Why d’ye want me number so bad, anyway?” Paul tried.

John's jaw was still set defiantly. “To take you out.”

They stared at one another. John, Paul knew, could see the skepticism on his face.

“ _What?_ ” John’s voice had gone slightly higher-pitched, almost accusingly.

Paul bit his lip, trying to find a succinct response to a question with countless answers. “Well, it’s hardly like you’ve shown any interest in me before,” was what he chose.

“I can be shy, sometimes.”

John was unrelenting, and Paul had a roiling anxiety in his gut. He felt like a little lad sat in front of a board game—chubby hands fumbling with little plastic shapes, rushing to fit them into their holes before the time ran out. Just waiting for all his work to be thrown into the air.

With that timer, ticking.

“You don’t think so?”

John's voice was flat, and Paul just _looked_ at him.

There was a forcefulness gone from John's face, but something troubling come into his eyes—an odd blankness, like somebody'd left home and switched off the lights. Especially troubling, since Paul's seen those eyes be many things—pissed-off, menacing, sarcastic, elated—but never _off_ , not usually. No, in any case, they were usually _blinding_.

“Well, ‘s not like I’d know, would I?” Paul replied carefully.

Even beneath the noise of the party, Paul felt the silence that stretched. Then Lennon's pupils contracted—finally blinked into focus. “No, s’pose not.”

His smirk was wry, and small, but it was something.

“I’m sure your mates would know better,” Paul continued.

“Yeah, ‘course they would,” John said. Paul tried not to hear the tinny quality to his chuckle. “Like any of this lot looks likely to know their own name, at the moment.”

“Ye could join them.” Paul swept his arm in a grand arc towards the remaining bottles. “Unless ye got too much respect for the Hantons' booze stash, I guess.”

John seemed to consider it for a minute. He squinted down into his cup as if waiting for it to fill itself, but at last set it down with a sigh. “Respect for me own arse, maybe. Doubt the manager appreciates _everybody_ turning up hungover.”

That caught Paul a bit off-guard. “Work tomorrow?”

“Well, a gig, yeah. Doubt this lot’ll be in any state to play, though.” Paul could assume what lot he was referring to, and had to agree. “Gonna drag ‘em there by their fuckin’ bollocks if it comes to that.”

“I don’t envy you, mate.”

Paul knew only too well how _that_ responsibility felt. The sort that you take on yourself because none of your classmates give two shits about how the group project turns out, or because none of your friends can think forward more than a few hours to when _somebody_ is going to have to haul all of them home (or to the A&E). It was the kind of job that got you called _bossy_ or _prissy_ or _stick-up-your-arse_ , _give-it-a-fookin-rest-Macca_. Which Paul was well used to, himself—but he definitely hadn't expected the same from Lennon.

The weariness in John's face was genuine, though, Paul could tell. As was the slight shyness that had crept into his voice when he'd responded, with a small, oh-so-small _yeah._

Paul had felt that _yeah_ press against his sternum. It had reached into the depths of him—to those buried, sacred places that still _cared_ about things, even when Paul wished they wouldn't.

Those were the places that kept Paul, _Paul_. And as the white noise of his mind faded out, just like before, another thought emerged with sudden clarity.

 _We're alike, you and I_.

And Paul really wasn't sure what to do with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm curious: Is there a specific year you all think is realistic for this fic? Because I've been feeling right around 2007-ish, but haven't wanted to commit.
> 
> (Also: you ever changed a detail of a story and then realised you had to go back and delete whole conversations to make things make sense? Because I do that shit like thrice per chapter at least.)


	3. John is Confusing, Paul is Confused, George is George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul's weird party experience comes to a close, but his thing with John…continues? Maybe? Paul's not really sure, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these things have been so short, I'm still trying to sort out the "flipping between POVs" stuff.
> 
> Thanks for your comments and kudos on the previous parts!! I'm genuinely stunned, it's been super cool to have feedback :)
> 
> Also, sometimes I make doodles to help me visualise wtf characters are supposed to be doing during a scene (otherwise I'm pathetically liable to forget like halfway through), so if that helps you guys at all [here's a little pen sketch of John from this chapter](https://i.imgur.com/9w4Asnv.jpg).
> 
> Here's the other digital drawing thing that used to take up a whole damn chapter: [[our Paul w/ his frumpy sweater]](https://i.imgur.com/wo02bdA.jpg)
> 
> If you're wondering why he looks like he's in a sauna or what the hell's going on w/his arms, please keep in mind that I know fuck all about digital art. I do, however, have an iPhone 7 and an index finger!

“…And her voice, worse than a screech owl—I swear it was _physically painful_. ‘ _What on earth have you drawn on my whiteboard?_ ’ So I’m all, ‘If ye have to ask that, miss, I can’t imagine ye’re a very effective sex ed teacher.’”

Paul let slip a laugh—a _giggle_ , really, which he found hard to blame on the one-and-a-half drinks he'd downed over the course of the night.

It was just that…John was a _unique_ storyteller, Paul had to say. One second he’d be gesturing wildly, acting out a grotesque cast of teachers and classmates—who could not be actual people, Paul was sure, unless John had attended school with Roald Dahl—and the next moment, all that manic energy would be concentrated down into little fluctuations of his voice, or beaming out of his intense squint. It made Paul feel…giddy, almost, like a Scout at a campfire, especially with the smoke from their lungs settling low and thick around them in the damp evening. A glow from the party inside filtered through the back window and onto the side of John’s face, casting each of his dopey expressions into a shadow-cut caricature of itself. (Another of the night's revelations: John had ginger streaks in his hair. Paul had never noticed.)

John punctuated the end of his tale by plucking a new cigarette from his pack. It was obvious when he slipped out of his storytelling persona—there was a slackening to him, something like a helium balloon that goes leaky and limp after a few days. His head lolled back against the house and he fished in his pockets, presumably for a lighter.

“So I take it you were a head boy type?” Paul jested, figuring it was now time for his input.

“Oh, aye. In a manner of speaking.” John jostled Paul’s shoulder in a very _wink wink, nudge nudge_ sort of gesture that only evoked confusion—albeit, an amused kind.

“What does that even _mean_?”

“I dunno.” John waved a dismissive hand in the air, ciggy between two of his fingers. “ _‘Head’_. There’s a blowjob joke in there, somewhere.”

Paul stared at him for a beat, before lowering his head with a scoff and bitten-back smile. “A teacher’s _dream_ , you are.”

John gave an acknowledging hum. “Made it through A-levels by the skin of me teeth—and they’re some thin-skinned little buggers.” Said teeth were clicked together loudly, John pulling a creepy grin as he did so and provoking another giggle from Paul. (A happy, boyish sound that Paul hoped had no bearing on the newly sly tilt to John's lips.)

For a minute or two, the young men smoked in comfortable silence. Just as Paul was about to propose reentering the house—eyes having caught on the goose pimple-ridden scape of John's bare arms—John cast a _look_ at him from the corner of his squint. “Guess I don't have to ask how _you_ did in school.”

“…eh. More or less,” Paul granted. He tried for a polite smile, too. But he was embarrassed to feel the muscles of his face gone tenser than just moments ago, and turned to stare out towards the back garden fence, not wanting John to come to the conclusion that he’d bothered him. Even though…he sort of had.

It was pretty obvious, at least to anyone who knew or knew _of_ John, that the boy wasn’t paying Paul a compliment. The sarcasm in his voice still rang just a bit too true to those old jeers that dogged a young Paul down the streets—the ones he'd stuff his blue school blazer down into his bookbag in a vain attempt to avoid. Paul didn’t necessarily want to be ‘ _that grammar school twat_ ’ in John’s eyes, all these years later, and the prospect of having already ruined that was a disappointment. Even more so than the inevitable acknowledgement that, _huh_ , he actually, probably did care what John thought about him.

A noisy clearing of a throat suddenly derailed Paul's train of thought. He looked to his right—where John's unwavering gaze towards their outstretched feet seemed just a bit too obviously forced. “Got into good schools, I mean.”

His voice was slightly tentative. It was not a particularly _strong_ attempt, sure, but Paul recognised the olive branch, and felt a bit less frozen for it. “Not bad yourself, lad—LJMU’s nothin’ to scoff at.”

But scoff John did. “Eh. No _University of Liverpyool_.” His long legs bounced up and down on the paving stones like John was trying to tread water; the lad fidgeted a lot, Paul was starting to notice. “And I got nothing against Caldies, but—well, actually, that’s not true, fuckin’ hated it there. Dunno why I said that—but anyway, ‘s not exactly turning out all of Liverpool’s _best_ and _brightest_.”

“Well then, neither’s Stockton Wood—my primary school,” Paul automatically answered a raised eyebrow. “In Speke, y’know. Went there before I took the 11 Plus for Blue Coat.”

“So I take it that was a step up,” John drawled.

“Oh yeah. Doubt I’ll ever make me da happier than the day we got _those_ results.”

“Gotta be hard, that—bein’ Daddy’s golden boy.”

It was said with just enough bite not to be entirely playful, and Paul merely snorted—a tad awkward, unsure what response John was expecting. But this time he quickly felt a nudge on his shoulder and the accompanying gruff voice. “A lot of pressure, I mean.”

 _I mean_. Paul was fairly sure that John _hadn’t_ meant, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d accept the excuse, but the effort relaxed the twisty feelings inside his chest all the same. Enough that Paul’s tone, when he spoke, maintained something close to lightness. “Sorta. I’m the first in the family to go to uni, y’know?” Paul’s fingers twiddled with what was left of his cigarette. “Can’t exactly piss away my tuition.”

“Can’t you? That’s all I _can_ seem to do with it.” John ground out his own cig on the stone patio, leaving an ashen smear that had Paul grimacing internally. Although, he figured that it was the least of the Hantons’ worries these days.

“What d’ye study, anyway?”

Paul's innocent question drew a long groan from John.

“‘Fine Art with Foundation Year’,” he eventually answered, “Allegedly.”

“‘Allegedly’?”

“Mostly I’ve learned how to draw porn for strangers on the internet.” His copper-tinged head rocked side-to-side on the brick of the wall. “So I can keep me and me shit band afloat.”

Paul chortled. “What, seriously?”

John nodded emphatically while taking another swig of his beer, gracing Paul with wide eyes and puffed-out cheeks. He coughed a bit when swallowing; there was a new rasp to his voice when he spoke. “This past Christmas I was putting together some family photos for me Aunt Mater—very nearly sent her an image of a blonde lass getting her ear defiled by a tentacle monster’s penis arms. I’d say that was a new low.”

Paul gawped, and shook his head, pressing his lips around rim of his bottle to hide a smile. “Maybe ye should stop naming all yer files ‘tentacle porn’, then. Causes confusion.”

John nodded sharply. “Or at least start labelling 'em, y’know—’tentacle porn’, underscore, ‘term paper’.” Beer-holding-hand outstretched, John shifted his arm left-to-right with each word as if pointing it out on a marquee. “‘Tentacle porn’, underscore, ‘internet stranger’, parenthesis, ‘ _happy christmas_ ’.”

Paul cackled and raised his own hand in the air, miming smooth loops with a pen on a huge invisible envelope:

"To Pervert's Right Hand, Esq.,  
Bellend,  
near the Keyboard.  
(with John's love.)"

Paul marked the final parenthesis with a flourish that happened to leave his hand very near to John’s. Paul allowed it linger there—weirdly stunned by the sight of his own pale skin next to tan fingers, callused but oddly delicate, all aglow against the black backdrop.

It occurred to him, first distantly and then acutely, that John had gone utterly silent. He followed the line of John’s arm with a nervous gaze, back towards his face, which was…fond? Amused, maybe? Instead of ridicule, at least, he gave only a soft laugh.

“What was that, then?” He said with pleasant crinkles about his eyes.

“Oh, nothing. Just…Christmas presents, you know.” Paul shrugged. He knew he was making no sense, but explaining an _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ reference somehow seemed significantly lamer than making an _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ reference.

“…right.” John drew the bottle back, slowly, up to his lips, which Paul noticed were twitching slightly. The longer Paul looked at him, the more conscious he became of a prickling energy under his skin. He snapped his eyes back towards his own lap.

“Do you enjoy it?” Paul rolled the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “Your…er, side job.”

“I don’t get _high on me own supply_ , if that’s what you mean.” John's waggling brows—which Paul could swear were audible in his voice—were met with an eye-roll.

“I don’t need to know _specifics_ , like.”

That prompted a strong laugh from John and the sound of his t-shirt rustling as he resettled against the wall. “Well…it’s pretty painless, funny sometimes. So long as the customers are cool. And like I said, it lets me fuck about with music for the time being.”

Paul swilled the beer around in his bottle and watched the weakening carbonation sparkle. “‘ _The time being_.’” It wasn’t a question, necessarily, but it left room for elaboration—an offer John took with a deep sigh.

“Well, I know the Quarrymen ain’t forever—don’t wanna be that sad bastard still trying to keep the magic alive at forty.”

Paul felt a smirk come unbidden to his lips. “Watch it, mate—that _sad bastard_ ’s me father.”

John paused his fidgeting—which had taken the form of knocking the toes of his trainers together—to fix Paul with a surprised look. “Yer dad’s got a band?”

“Eh, of sorts. He plays with a jazz group sometimes.” Paul couldn’t help but snicker at the disgusted lip curl this earned. “I know! But he likes it…and it keeps him out of the house, anyway.”

“So does he, like…work in music?”

“Nah, for a textile company. He does sales stuff.”

Paul noticed John's face fall, subtly. He would’ve felt offended on his father’s behalf, but he knew that John wasn't disparaging his father's work so much as the prospect of becoming a textile salesman _himself_ , and for that Paul didn’t think he could blame him. In fact, he could very much empathize.

“I don’t think he minds it, though,” Paul began, slowly. “People say all sorts of things about _doing what you love,_ and _never working a day in your life,_ and all. But…well, who is that really realistic for, y’know?” Another cigarette was slid from the packet and popped between his lips. “I mean, ye don’t think all those lorry drivers at the port have just got lifelong passions for hauling shit off boats, right? But they got families, and hobbies—and _bands_ , I guess—all those other things that make it worth it to go out and make a living.”

He lifted his lighter to his mouth—inhaled slowly, and let the smoke escape. As he watched the murky grey wisps dissipate into the murkier sky, he had the odd feeling that John was watching as well.

“I dunno, maybe it’s cos of me…background, or whatever,” Paul added. “But work’s _work_ —it’s bread on the table, like. It doesn’t have to be _everything else_ , too. ”

He finally turned his face to his companion, and found the boy already staring back.

John bit his lip. “So what about you? You got a passion for…English, weren’t it?”

“Yeah, English Lit.” Paul scratched at the faint but persistent stubble on his chin. “And I dunno…I mean, I like literature, definitely. And I guess I like the course well enough. Not like as a kid I really wanted to be an English teacher when I grew up, but…”

“What _did_ you want to be?”

Maybe it was the natural late-night inhibition, or a trick of the yellowy light that made John look almost _soft_ , but Paul found himself readily opening his mouth before the words caught in his throat. _Quite a personal question_ , part of his brain reminded him…and while that was pretty well par for the course in this conversation, so far, it still gave Paul pause. It was one thing to admit to feeling directionless, or frustrated with life—which practically went without saying for anybody in their angsty young adult years—and another thing entirely to confide in John about all those early days spent on a worn piano stool, composing for imaginary audiences. Telling a man with an actual, at least _semi_ -functional band about his childhood dreams of being a rockstar, seemed a step too far…

“I wanted to be a cat.”

Paul blinked away his lingering thoughts. “What?”

“Mm-hm.” Brown eyes were amused but genuine. “A black cat with white paws, like. And I’d lie in this warm spot just in front of our telly, where the sun fell, without Mimi shouting at me to 'get back from that screen or rot my eyes’.”

Paul couldn’t help but crack a smile at the image. “Well, that’s a shame, then.”

“Is it?”

“Only, I wanted to be a dog.” He allowed his grin to broaden across his face as Lennon laughed, a bright sound in the deepening night. “A great old sheepdog, as well—would scare ye right off.”

“Dunno if I scare that easily.” John sighed theatrically and slid his back down the wall, eyes towards the heavens. “But now I see why ye wouldn’t give me yer number, anyway. A tomcat and a sheep dog—t’was never in the stars.”

Paul watched Lennon scanning the skies, as if he could actually read something in the city smog and the constellations. Something about fate, or fortune (or the location of a pirate's treasure, or whether the wind would blow from the south or the west next Tuesday…Paul had never really been sure what people looked for in stars). But some stupid, romantic part of Paul thought the night sky, for all its enormity, might be easier to parse than the boy in front of him.

Because, well…Paul had been wary of getting too involved with Lennon. Absolutely. But then, _John Lennon_ probably didn’t smile dreamily at the stars, or go giggly like a schoolboy at the dumbest puns on Earth—or grin with all his teeth out, so brightly it made Paul’s stomach do somersaults. He probably wouldn’t give Paul’s shoulder a nudge to soften a harsh comment. And Paul doubted he dreamt of being a cat, sunning himself in his auntie’s sitting room.

And suddenly, a decision was made.

"Gotcher phone on ye?" Paul extended an open hand to John, whose eyes went round in realisation. He fumbled in his pockets for the device.

Going to fill out a new entry in John's address book, Paul took a second to be charmed by his phone’s background—a clearly amateur photo of a grey cat lounging on its back, splayed over a fur- and denim-covered lap. The image was blurred where a paw had stretched out to bat at the camera. Paul tapped out his name and number with a growing warmth in his chest before handing John back his phone.

He’d thought briefly of taking a picture for his own contact, but a sudden lurch in his stomach had informed him in no uncertain terms that it didn't want John to have _that_ photo—a Paul all grainy in the dim light, hair mussed from the bike ride, potentially with the cabbage from dinner between his teeth. He forced himself to remember that he probably shouldn’t care about that sort of thing. (Although a traitorous part of him whispered that their flirting had been semi-consummated, now, so…a bit of self-consciousness was allowed.)

But Paul’s decision was rendered more or less moot when he heard the shutter effect of a camera phone—John had sneaked a picture anyway. He raised an innocent eyebrow at Paul’s accusatory frown. “Needed a pretty face to match the number, Mr. McCharmley.”

"…Right. Please don't make me regret giving you that—"

Paul’s mouth snapped shut abruptly. Not having noticed the door open, he'd been startled to catch sight of an imposing figure in the doorway—bony arms crossed over a bony chest, near-unibrow in a flat line.

An unimpressed George.

“Jesus, mate, fuckin’ terrifying.” Paul scrubbed a hand over his forehead.

"Sorry t'interrupt," George said. He did not look it. "Paul, I’ve got a text from Mike, he says yer da's locked up the house. Properly, this time—set the burglar alarm ‘n all.”

Paul scrunched his face in confusion. "Why'd’e text you instead of me?"

"Dunno. Maybe cos I keep me phone's ringer on?” George shot a glance towards the phone Paul had just handed to John. “And I don't go passing it ‘round at parties, either.”

"That’s _his_ phone," Paul protested half-heartedly, but if George heard, he didn’t acknowledge.

"Anyway, was thinkin’ we could just crash at mine. But we should get a move on if we're headin’ to Speke."

"Alright…ta, Geo." Paul stood and turned back to John. "Talk to ye later, then?"

John nodded. But Paul hadn't got three yards with George before a nasal voice was calling him back.

"Ay, Paul! You…you like rock music?”

George snorted at that, and received a swift _keep-your-mouth-shut_ elbow to the ribs.

“Yep,” Paul replied simply.

John’s eyes flickered between the two of them. “So y’know how I told ye we—my band, that is—we got a gig tomorrow night at the Cavern? Sort of a regular thing. Anyway, I…we go on at nine, if ye’re interested." His words tripped and trailed in a way that, objectively, should have been awkward—and would have been, had they come from anybody else’s mouth.

"Sounds good," Paul said, proud that his tone didn't betray his surprise. "I'll uh…see if I can make it."

John smiled. "Class."

"Right, yeah.” Paul smiled back.

They sat dumbly that way for a long moment. As George finally lost patience and Paul was steered away, he thought he caught a glimpse of John's grin going wide and toothy.

* * *

“What was that back there?”

“What d’ye mean?” Although Paul was pretty certain he knew exactly what George was talking about it—and said boy didn’t hesitate to call him out on it, his scoff condensing in the cool air. (Paul had already had second, going on third thoughts about wheeling their bikes over the last stretch to George's house; the wind wasn’t as biting, slower-moving as they were, but the extra time amidst the elements was not doing the lads any favors.)

“What d’ye mean _what do I mean_?" George insisted, " _John Lennon_ invited you to see his band.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Paul breathed, but to his own shame, it came out less _mockingly skeptical_ and more _happily disbelieving_. He could almost feel the confusion radiating off his mate and tried to avoid an obvious grimace, suddenly glad for the dark and the cold to hide his warm cheeks.

“Ye’re not gonna _go_ , are you?”

Paul kicked an errant piece of gravel. “Why not? If I’ve got nothin’ else on— _geez!_ ” He threw an arm up as protection against a sudden visual assault. “The _hell_ , Geo?”

The other boy shrugged casually, as if he hadn’t just near-blinded his oldest friend with his bike light. “Just checkin’ if y’were being serious.”

"I mean…I was _considering_ it. I know the Cavern’s not me usual spot, but. I dunno.”

“Yep. _That’s_ the problem I was envisionin’ with this whole thing.”

Paul's voice went ever-so-slightly imploring. “‘S not really a big deal, is it? Might as well drop in and grab a pint, catch a bit of the band…”

“ _John Lennon_ ’s band.” George didn’t expand on that statement, but he didn’t need to—the look on his face was a clear enough non-verbal _you know what I’m referring to_. Unfortunately, Paul did know.

“I _know_ , Haz. But it hardly even makes much difference, since I doubt I'd be doing much interacting with him—him being on stage, and all. And, anyway…look, maybe I’m an idiot for thinking so, but I don’t see what harm’ll come from just… _talking_ to ‘im, like.”

Paul could have done with some reassurance on that point from his friend, but George merely shrugged. "If you think so." When they reached the house a moment later, George turned left towards the snicket to wheel his bike round the back garden. Paul paused near the front hedges.

“I s’pose ye won’t be wanting to go with me, then?” he asked sheepishly.

George stopped and turned to him, blinking. Then he huffed an incredulous sound and shook his head, turning back away down the path. “Don’t be fuckin’ daft.”

Paul watched the back of a shaggy head disappear behind brick before following, handlebars in hand and a fond look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They smoke like fuckin chimneys in this chapter I'm so sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for reading, folks!


End file.
